


Dust and Blood

by Gruffen, valinorbound



Series: The Sun Will Shine On Us Again [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Iron Fist (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), Luke Cage (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: (we're sorry), Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Spoilers, Gen, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Post-Defenders AU, in which everyone gets out of Midland Circle together and very much alive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 15:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16519391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gruffen/pseuds/Gruffen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/valinorbound/pseuds/valinorbound
Summary: Claire’s legs gave way - she collapsed to the ground, her phone still cradled in her hand. She wanted to scream, wanted to cry, but all she did was listen.The silence. It scared her.A single tear welled in the corner of her eye. She could do nothing but let it fall.ORThanos snaps his fingers, and Hell's Kitchen burns.





	1. The Beginning

Karen Page from the New York Bulletin was having a better Tuesday morning than most.  
Well, better didn’t mean good - few things were these days.  
Better meant that Hell’s Kitchen was mercifully far away from Bleecker Street and the events of this morning, which happened to be gold dust for a journalist.  
Aliens, doughnut spaceships, Tony Stark missing - as if that was the world’s biggest concern right now - her brain was churning out the words faster than she could type. 

Events like these were Karen’s forte; there was no way in Hell that she’d lose the front page to Louise down the hall. 

If she were to be completely honest, she’d much rather be anywhere else than the New York Bulletin. A bar, perhaps, much farther away from The Incident Mark Two, with a shit-ton of alcohol and Foggy and Matt sat safely by her side. But duty called. Or rather, the fifth mug of coffee today. 

Karen sighed and stood up to pace over to the window. If she opened it she could hear the faint, panicked cries of those thinking the world had come to an end, marching a few blocks away, their protests demanding information from what was surely an alien-run government.  
That’d be a fun article to write later. The conspiracies that have cropped up, in relation to the Incident, what on Earth (or another planet) Tony Stark was up to. 

The sun shone optimistically through the glass. A ray of hope in a broken world. 

***

Karen pondered in silence, the coffee mug tipping absentmindedly in her hand. Her eyes went out of focus for a while as she stared into the middle distance.  
Alien Invasion Two. In New York.

Again?

There had to be some interesting story behind this, an explanation. A reason her city was a target of sorts.  
Maybe after lunch, she’d try delving into the amateur Wordpress blogs dedicated to theories surrounding it. There had to be at least a few panic-written monstrosities from underground bunkers that had something worth listening to.

Good plan.

_Ok, so - finish this paragraph, find lunch at some brave diner that managed to stay open, th-_

***

Death should not be silent. 

It should be deafening.

Pierced with screams and agonised cries, tears for the ones you love, a final fight. Denial. It’s not brave, not noble; in death, no one is truly fearless.  
The noise leaves you raw.  
Silence - well. Silence feels _wrong._

Like swimming through a dream.

***

(Far away, bathed in the Wakandan noon, _he should have gone for the head._ )

The mug fell with a soft thud on the carpeted floor. 

A moment later, the ashes of Karen Page drifted peacefully out the open window.

* * *

Foggy wasn’t sure if it was morning yet, or if it was even a Tuesday. 

He could hunt down his phone from under a pile of bloody bandages from last night’s heroin-cartel-bust-with-added-parkour fiasco, but at this point standing up was too much of an effort.  
What other reason could he have for standing up? None. Absolutely- oh. Nope, there’s the soup on the stove. Boiling away.  
Let it boil, he thought with an internal sigh, as he sank back into the only spare pillow.

The culprit who was now curled up on a couch around _five_ unnecessary pillows was, mercifully, asleep. 

Foggy looked over at him again. Took in the peace. The jagged cut on his forehead.  
He was alive, he was _safe_ , there was no way he’d drop dead on the spot if Claire promised he wouldn’t - so why was he so paranoid?

Because Matt Murdock would be the kind of person to ignore Claire for some messed up Catholic reason and drop dead on the spot for justice and the fate of his city.

Foggy felt like he should hate him for it, but he never could. Not in any universe. 

He _loved_ that goddamn stupid avocado. 

***

Foggy had tried, so hard, to understand Matt’s religion. Seriously. He tried his best. However hard, though, he could never quite get his head around why anyone would _want_ to believe - especially Matt, who’d had more than his fair share of universe-granted crap. Why anyone would devote their life choices to the embodiment of peace when there was no proof He gave a damn about them was a mystery to him. Foggy respected. Even appreciated. But he never understood.

It’s only when you lose what gives you meaning that you’d believe in anything that could get it back.

***

Matt stirs a while later. He drags his arm over his eyes with a half-conscious mumble, shifting to take a little more weight off his ribs. 

Foggy knows some of them are cracked.  
Matt said it was two. Claire said five.  
That was yet another thing he was going to include in his why-Matt-sucks-and-Foggy-is-always-right speech when he wakes up, be that now or any time next year.  
Most likely the latter. 

The soup finally boiled over and enticed Foggy out of his armchair to turn off the stove. No point wasting this rare moment of productivity, so he found his phone and sat back down. 

Turned his phone on.  
What’s-  
Oh. 

Oh, Shit. 

_Shit._

***

“Matt?”

“Hm?”

“It’s happened again.”

***

They sat in silence. Matt still wrapped in his blanket, slightly more alert than earlier.  
Foggy trying for the thirty-second time to call Karen. 

“Fog? Any word?”

“You know there hasn’t been.”

The silence isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s the most tense they’d been since the summer of 2012. Understandably. 

He stands up and moves over to Matt’s couch, squeezing in next to him between the arm and his blanketed elbow.  
Matt takes Foggy’s hand in his.  
Foggy wraps the blanket back over Matt’s shoulder. 

They stay like that until the world falls apart. 

***

( _It ends with a_ “Fog? I… I feel-” _and a_ “Matt-?” - _it ends with a muffled cry, with dust on his hands and a strangled scream-_ )

***

There were times in Foggy's life when he wanted, so bad, to believe as Matt did.  
Matt’s faith seemed to be a comfort for when he was sad, a vice when it was impossible to keep going, sometimes a friend.  
Foggy respected. Appreciated. But as hard as he tried, he never understood. 

When the sun dropped behind city smog, (when _Steve?_ ), when he felt more lost than he’d ever done before, (when _I’m sorry_ ), he understood. 

There was never a God. 

There is only the devil. 

Because the devil he loved was gone.

* * *

Jessica Jones was having a _shitty_ Tuesday morning.  
Her latest case, which had seemed interesting at first, had turned out to be just another rich businessman escaping his fancy life to sleep with the maid or some other crap - she couldn’t be bothered with the details.  
The rent was overdue, her door had been smashed one too many times to be even remotely repairable (despite Malcolm’s best efforts), and, to put the icing on the metaphorical cake, she’d been forced to deal with a stampede of tourists running away from yet another global catastrophe that just _had_ to start in her city.  
Again.  
Well, at least she had Trish. And access to cheap alcohol.

***

The bar was packed to burst by 11 am, filled with New Yorkers too proud or too stubborn to run from whatever was happening halfway across the city.  
( _Across the planet, across the universe_ ).

Somehow, Jessica and Trish had managed to grab seats by the bar; occasionally it paid to have super strength and a very forceful personality.

_“Jesus, Jess! It’s not even midday!”_

_“Yeah, well, you try staying sober after the morning I’ve had.”_

They sit together, united, two sisters against the world - oblivious to the images of chaos unfolding on the television screens behind them.

_(‘BREAKING NEWS: Car chase on the streets of San Francisco. Violence in Edinburgh. Conflict in WakaCCRRRCCCCCHHHHHHHHTTTTTTTT’)_

***

Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance - all part of a devastating, desperate roar.  
The only thing worse? The silence that follows - the absence of anything other than dust and blood.

In the face of great danger, the human spirit does a remarkable thing - _it says no._  
It says _you will not take me away from what I love._  
It says _bullshit_. It says _never_. It says _sorry._  
It says _fuck you, universe._

It says _I’m not leaving her._

When the dust settles ( _oh God_ ), there are only two figures left in the bar.

***

Jessica Jones survives. Trish Walker survives.  
They do nothing but hold on to each other, hold onto hope. It’s as if the universe must end before they let go.  
Maybe it will.

Maybe it just did.

* * *

Tuesday morning, the day after Luke had decided to give himself a holiday from crime fighting, Harlem went to shit.  
Not the Mariah-and-Shades-occasional-gun-deal kind of shit. It was the kind he couldn’t do a thing to help with, and it began with the goddamn space doughnuts.

***

Just stay at Pop’s, he kept telling himself. Stay where it’s safe, where the whole of Harlem knows it’s safe - where they’ll come to find him if they need his help. Claire and Bobby and D.W, they’ll come too.  
He had the news on at full volume, eyes glued to the rubble uptown. He wished he could do something to help, but knew it was a two-hour walk - one if he sprinted - and by that time any help he could give would be useless.  
He could sit here. Hand out one-dollar soda from the fridge. Do what Luke Cage is supposed to do - keep the people of his city safe.

***

 _Mariah and Shades._

He knew, with absolute certainty, they’d make the most of this situation and use it to their own advantage. Behind Mariah’s reassuring speeches there’d be gun deals, murders of gang leaders, all masked in the confusion and fear - Shades hiding around every corner with a pistol.

_Mariah and Shades. Mariah and Shades. Bobby, D.W. Mariah and Shades. Misty.  
Claire._

He had to find her, just to make sure she was safe. Had to see her, see her smile, look into those eyes that never failed to say _everything will be alright._

Luke spun on the barber’s chair to face the window, gazing up at the street; stay inside, the news had said - keep yourself safe.  
That’s not what heroes do.

***

The streets of Harlem were empty, stone-cold; is feet hitting the pavement and faraway sirens were the only sounds he could hear.  
He should be worried.

But the only thought in his head, the only thought there’d ever be, was _Claire._

***

Luke’s heart jumped as he heard the _buzz_ of his phone. Opening it with trembling fingers, the text seemed to weigh more than he could he could hold; it was only after he read it he realised he had forgotten to breathe.

_“You ok?”_

Yes. yes, he was. He was now.

***

It was a corner of the pavement by St Nicholas Park.  
He stopped, looked down at his phone - it’s sometimes surprising how hard it is to know what to type.  
He wanted to tell Claire everything. How scared he was, how glad he was that she was alright. To thank her for being there, for making the world seem whole.  
He wanted to tell her he loved her.

***

_(Tony… there was no other way.)_

The phone rang. It lay on the pavement in a cloud of dust, ringing.  
Just ringing.

Harlem’s hero would never pick it up.

* * *

“So, it’s… a disembodied eye?” Danny asked on Colleen’s strange Tuesday morning. 

“The eye is metaphorical. I’ve told you this already-”

“But it’s still _there_.”

“In the films, yeah. He just completely ignored a major part of the book - it wasn’t as tacky as it could have been, so I guess we have to give him that.”

“It’s… still an _eye_ … on top of a _tower_...”

“Danny. You fought a frickin’ dragon that made your fist glow and you’re questioning-”

“I thought it was a sophisticated adventure with a few elves, but apparently not.”

“It’s the most sophisticated literary masterpiece this century!”

“In your opinion.”

“In my opinion, and the opinions of millions of people around the world-”

“Who all dress up as that slimy skeleton thing…”

“ _Gollum._ ”

“...and speak to each other in the elf language.”

Colleen gave a defeated laugh and leaned across the sofa to punch him in the ribs.  
“We’re watching them this weekend. All three extended editions. Prepare yourself, _meleth nîn_ , you’ll be quoting the prophecy of the Ring by Monday.”

***

Sometimes, life was perfect. A shining moment of bliss where nothing can possibly go wrong. In those moments she forgot about Bakuto, forgot the Hand, K’un-Lun, Harold Meachum. She resented the moments after when it all came flooding back, so she held that bliss tight.

That morning’s bliss was interrupted by the news, unsurprisingly. 

***

“Danny, this is not something we can fight.”

“But we can try! There’s someone out there, someone I can save, and you’re telling me to-“

“I’m telling you this is some _Avengers level shit_. There’s no way we’ll make any kind of a difference, so the best thing you can do is leave them to do their jobs and stay safe. Just this once. Alright?”

***

It had been a few hours, waiting, when Danny turned to look at her with a new kind of gut-wrenching fear in his eyes. His face had gone deathly pale and he grasped her hand in a white-knuckled grip, trembling as if he’d seen the end of the world. 

“Colleen?” He whispered. “It’s… it’s gone.”

“Wh- Danny, what’s gone…”

“The Dragon… th- the fist… ‘s gone...”

And then, ( _I love you_ ), as Colleen felt his hand slip out of hers, ( _No…_ ), so was the man she loved.

***

She sat sprawled on the floor of the dojo, his ashes in her hands.

She cried. She hurt. _Everything_ hurt - so she never realised.  
It’s a weird thing, to feel as strongly as Colleen did then. You’re numb but you feel so much, it’s cold, but your eyes burn as if they want to scorch away the image in your mind.  
The image of Danny’s ashes.  
His hand slipping out of hers, when there’s nothing she could do.

She never noticed.

She never felt the burn of the dragon’s heart. Or maybe, she did - there’s no way you can ignore it - but she assumed it was the pain of someone lost.

But it was there. Simmering inside her. 

Waiting to glow.

* * *

Claire Temple’s Tuesday morning had gone downhill.  
It had started out fine - great, even. She’d woken early, and had had time to eat breakfast for the first time in what seemed like forever.  
Plus, aside from one brief incident involving the biblically-themed idiot, she hadn’t had to deal with any superhero nonsense for at least a week, which had to be some sort of record.  
She had, however, no doubt that the Hulk would somehow turn up on her doorstep by the end of the week.  
She’d made it to work on time, had done her rounds, and was three-quarters of the way through a shift in the ER when the first casualties of Bleecker Street arrived.

_(“It was a wizard, I swear, a fucking wizard - there was golden magic shit everywhere, you know? No, Brenda, I’m serious. It was messed up.”)_  
_(“Mark? Mark! I saw Spiderman! I... I know you’ve seen him twelve times - Iron Man was there as well! Shut up!”)_  
_(Simon, email the AvengerWatch group, we’ve got - no, no, I’m fine - seriously, this is good stuff-)_

Claire wasn’t afraid of this. After a certain incident with a ninja, she was just relieved the aliens didn’t beam straight down into the cardiac ward.  
She was, however, consumed with unrelenting worry that somehow her four super friends had ended up in that doughnut, spinning through space on their way to Vulcan.  
Pushing those horrible thoughts aside, Claire got to work.  
The endless monotony of bandaging, stitching, and dealing with panicking people was enough to distract her from her fear for her friends - after all, although dealing with non-superpowered humans wasn’t any easier, at least she was qualified to do it.  
Sure, the job had its problems: poor pay, long shifts, being forced to spend hours pulling broken glass out of drunk dickheads.  
But it meant that she could help people, could make a difference in people’s lives - sort them out, change them for the better. She didn’t need a super strength, bulletproof skin, heightened senses, or a glowing fist to do it - maybe she couldn’t save all of Hell’s Kitchen or Harlem, but she could save the people of the city.  
Hopefully, she always would.

***

By late morning, activity in the hospital had slowed down enough that Claire was finally able to take a few moments for herself. She and a few other nurses congregated around a small television in the break room, hugging polystyrene cups of cheap coffee. In her other hand, she cradled her phone - trying to muster the courage to ring Luke. Despite his powers, despite what she’d seen him do, there was always the fear that one day he’d get hurt. Bad. And she wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing about it.  
A text message would have to do - her break was nearly over and already she could sense desperation in the ER; too many patients and too few staff.

She unlocked her phone with a slight tremor in her hands that she didn’t know had been there.

_You ok?_

Simple, and to the point. She didn’t want him to know how worried she really was. 

***

“Claire? No time to waste!” The call came from down the corridor in Cathy’s nasally high-pitched squeal.

She sighed, turned around, and walked back through the doors of the break room. Immediately, she felt uneasy - like she was standing on the edge of a hurricane. _The calm before the storm?_  
Possibly. 

She’d seemed to develop a strange sort of skill from the many unexpected circumstances life threw at her. That skill was feeling, deep inside the primitive part of her brain, almost _knowing_ , when something was about to turn her life upside down.  
Like the world was about to spin out of orbit and take her tumbling along for the ride.

With that thought pushed to one side, she stepped into the ward. 

( _This is no place to die._ )

***

 

All of a sudden, the brief calm was shattered by a shrill _beeeeep_. Someone was flatlining. _Shit._ Almost immediately, another _beeeeep._ And another. Another, and another. 

Claire’s panicked gaze fell on empty beds. Beds which had been filled when she went on break, with the heart monitors eerily sounding their alarms. Beds which now seemed to be shrouded in - _was that ash?_

The ashes made no sound. They drifted, silent, across the beds, on the floor - and they just kept falling.

Someone, somewhere, was screaming.

***

 _Luke. Call Luke._  
Luke always answered - he could’ve been in the middle of a bar fight and he’d still pick up the phone.  
Her hands trembled, shook so violently she was afraid they’d turn to dust as well.  
The phone rang, and kept ringing.  
Just ringing.  
Voicemail.  
_No._

Claire’s legs gave way - she collapsed to the ground, her phone still cradled in her hand. She wanted to scream, wanted to cry, but all she did was listen.

The silence. It scared her.

A single tear welled in the corner of her eye. She could do nothing but let it fall.

* * *

What did it cost?

_Everything._


	2. Epilogue

The human spirit is a remarkable thing - when it is hurt, when hope is lost, when it feels like the world is tearing it in two, it fights back. It falls back on its deepest instinct; to protect, to defend, to save.  
It gives a mother the strength to lift a car to save her child. It gives a soldier the resolve to fight on whilst others fall around him. It gives a doctor the courage to save a patient's’ life while their own are at stake.

In that moment, it gave Claire the strength to lift her phone back up to her ear. It gave her the resolve to dial a different number, the courage to dial another number when the first gave no answer. And another. And another. And another.

A distress call. A cry for assistance. A prayer for someone to listen.  
And maybe, just maybe, a way for Claire Temple to continue to save people, the way she always had done.  
She just needed a bit of help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Defenders will return...


End file.
